


Charleston & Charlatans

by LostinFic



Series: Any David Tennant character x Any Billie Piper character [15]
Category: Fright Night (2011), Spirit Trap (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Circus, F/M, Supernatural Elements, Teninch Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8114173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostinFic/pseuds/LostinFic
Summary: The O'Malley Brothers Carnival Extravaganza is home to the famous illusionist Peter Vincent and to Jenny, a novice fortune teller. Both rely on tricks and gimmicks to entertain the public.When the show is over, they are partners in crime, combining their skills to take advantage of rich people who want to communicate with the dead. Everywhere the circus goes, they organize séances. Until one day, they take things too far...





	1. Hoodwinking

 

 

 

  


 

All the circus performers gathered in a communal kitchen set up in the middle of the tents. They ate outside on mismatched tables and chairs. If they were lucky, the wind didn’t carry the smell of elephant dung in their direction.

 Jenny kept her eyes locked on her bowl of beef and barley soup, but the temptation was great to ogle Igor and Malka at the next table. Tattoos covered their bodies from scalp to tip toes, intricate ink designs that may or may not have a signification. Malka used to perform as a bearded woman, but she didn’t want to keep her hairy face after falling in love with Igor.  They were a double act now. At the moment, they were arguing about visiting her parents, Igor disliked his mother-in-law it seemed.

In the few days since she had joined the circus, Jenny had learned that the freakshow people could be the most normal folks, and the normal ones could be the freakiest.

A man approached her then, the very definition of normal: brown eyes and brown hair parted on the side with Brylcreem. He was as lanky as Buster Keaton, only braces prevented his tweed trousers from slipping off his narrow hips. He had a roguish smile on and a twinkle in his eyes that made her wary.

“So, you’re the new fortune teller,” he said, turning a chair and sitting astride it.

“Yeah, I’m Jenny.”

“Jenny, not much of a medium name, is it? How ‘bout miss Esmeralda?”

“I— I’ll think about it.”

“Good. I’ll go by your tent after my act with a lass or two. If I like what I see, I might have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition?”

 He winked and left without an explanation.

“Er, Malka? Who was that?”

“Oh, that’s Herbert. But you probably know him as the Magnificent Peter Vincent.”

She knew that name all right, but on all the posters advertising his show he wore long black hair, a goatee and kohl.

“Are you sure?”

“He is all costume this one, not a true freak like us,” Malka declared.

Peter Vincent, what proposition could he possibly have for her?

*

Jenny’s decision to join the O’Malley Brothers' Great Carnival, had happened on a whim. She had seen an ad in the newspaper: “Psychic wanted”. It had seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get out of a tricky situation.

 Jenny’s mother had been known to possess extraordinary abilities. People came to their house at all hours of the day to speak with spirits. Jenny herself did not believe in those abilities, she even resented her mother for it and blamed it on her illness. An illness that killed her mother last year.

 Jenny found herself alone and unable to afford the house. Her father had long ago left them because of his wife’s obsession with the great beyond. Running out of money, she had pretended to possess the same powers as her mother. How hard could it be to tell someone’s fortune, she’d seen her mother do it countless times? And she’d learned a few tricks of the trade along the way.

 She was doing well until she bragged about her tricks to a bloke down at the pub. Unfortunately, he happened to be the nephew of a loyal customer. The information spread like wildfire amongst her clients.

 Figuring she had nothing to lose, Jenny answered the “psychic wanted” ad and met the O’Malley brothers for an interview. She was relieved to find out they were more interested in someone who could put on a good show, than in someone who could actually communicate with the dead. And Jenny could put on a good show— she wanted to be an actress after all. They hired her on the spot. With nothing but one old bag, she’d hopped on the circus train and began a life on the road.

*

At ten o’clock, loud applause echoed from the big top through the field occupied by the circus; another successful performance for Peter Vincent and his creatures of the night. The travelling circus stopped in every city, big and small, from Portsmouth to Durness, and in every city crowds flocked to see his show.  In her tiny tent, Jenny had heard every “ooh” and “aah” of the spectators.

 Jenny gave her crystal ball another wipe and adjusted the fake jewel hanging on her forehead— her costume was modest but she couldn’t afford more accessories for now. With a knot in her stomach, she awaited Peter’s arrival with “a lass or two”.

 He had his full vampire hunter outfit on. A woman followed him in, clutching her long pearl necklace as her puffy eyes darted around the dimly-lit space. Her clothes were elegant but her hair was wild.

“Miss Esmeralda, this is Mrs. Abbott. She came to me with some questions and I thought your gift might help bring her some peace,” Peter said in a gentle voice she didn’t expect.

“Er, yeah, sure. Of course, Mrs. Abbott, if you would take a seat, I shall do my best to help you,” Jenny said, imitating Peter’s sympathetic demeanor.

Peter stayed up behind the client, one hand on her shoulder. Did he really believe she was a medium? She glanced at him and he smirked.

 _Splendid_.

Jenny sat down in front of the woman and took deep breaths, swaying slightly, as though entering a state of trance.

“Yes, I see. I see. You have lost someone during the Great War.” Everyone had lost someone in the Great War.

“Yes! My son.” She nearly knocked down the table in her excitement.

Jenny touched her temples. “I sense the letter T... Or P?”

“No, his name was Bertrand.”

“Ha, yes, of course. I’m sorry, the future and the past, they all flow together. You will meet someone with a name that begins with T or P, and that person will be a great help to you, Mrs. Abbott.”

“Perhaps it’s Mr. Peter Vincent.”

Jenny held back a victorious smile: she loved when clients made connections themselves.

“But you are here about Bertrand, so let us focus on him. I sense that you are still grieving. You have tried to move on, but sometimes you get very sad.” She glanced at the lady’s fingers. “There are other people who need you. Your husband. ”

“He doesn’t need me,” Mrs. Abbott huffed, she leaned away from Jenny.

Unshaken by this rebuttal, Jenny persevered. “Are you sure about that? You should look into it. Men have different ways of expressing their grief.”

Mrs. Abbott teared up. “Oh, dear, I’ve been so blind, only thinking about dear Bertrand.” She touched her pocket as she said this.

Jenny took the woman’s shaking hand. “I think you have made a great deal of efforts, but sometimes grief is stronger.”

“Yes, yes it is.”

“Now, I sense you have a special object with you. There’s a strong metaphysical energy emanating from it.”

Mrs. Abbott retrieved a small notebook from her pocket but did not hand it to Jenny, she kept a tight grip on it. Either it was very precious or she really didn’t want Jenny to see what was inside. Hesitating, Jenny decided to use a general statement: “Bertrand wants you to keep this.”

“I oughtn’t have read it,” Mrs. Abbott whispered, “but I was so... desperate. His body was never returned to us, you see. I don’t know that he had a proper religious burial.”

“I see. It’s really calling to me, Mrs. Abbott. It would help if I could touch the notebook, I won’t look inside, I promise.”

When she hesitated, Peter gave her shoulder a supportive squeeze, and she slid the notebook across the table. Jenny ceremoniously placed her hands upon it and closed her eyes. She hummed and nodded, pretending to receive some kind of message. Meanwhile her mind raced to connect all the dots and find the best thing to tell Mrs. Abbott. The mother had read something in her son’s notes, a secret, something sinful perhaps, but his dying on a battlefield meant no last rites before his death, no absolution: she worried he’d gone to Hell.

“Amiens,” Jenny blurted out.

“Pardon?”

“Amiens, it’s in France, I think. You’ll find answers there, a man— a priest who met Bertrand.”

“That’s where they said he died. Oh, miss Esmeralda, you have to tell me more, please.”

“I’m very tired now,” Jenny said, slouching down in her chair. “Talking to spirits takes a massive amount of energy. It’s gone now, I’m so sorry.”

Peter escorted Mrs. Abbott out of Jenny’s tent. She breathed out a sigh of relief, people usually came in for a laugh. This reading had been more intense than expected. Would Mrs. Abbott go to Amiens? A shiver ran down her spine, and she hiked her shawl over her shoulders.

 

A moment later, Peter came back and handed her a wad of cash.  “Already took my cut, of course.”

“Wha’? You never said anything about splitting the dough!”

“Oh, shut yer geggy, you got three times the money you usually make. All thanks to _moi_. What can I say? This pretty face don’t come cheap.”

He offered her a sip from a flask he kept in his jacket. She took one long gulp— if he could take half her money, she could take half his booze. If his smile was anything to go by, he liked her boldness.

He removed his wig and scratched his scalp, messing his hair in an oddly attractive way.

“How did you know about Amiens?” he asked

“I didn’t. Stroke of luck, I guess. Anyway, I said there was a man there who knew her son, I didn’t say that’s where he’d died. So did you like what you saw or not?”

He gave her the old once over. “Maybe,” he teased. “You need to work on your voice, doll.”

“I’m not your doll.”

“No, but you sure look like one.” He lifted one of her blond curls. “And you sound like one. Speak lower, fake an accent or something, give ‘em some mystery.

“Okay.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me there’s someone waiting for me. I never keep a lady waiting.”

“Mrs. Abbott?”

“God, no! … Unless it’s her daughter. I’ll have to ask her name. All right, I’ll see you around, doll.  Have a good night. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He left with a giggle and his long jacket floating behind him.

“Wait! Mrs. Abbott, will she be all right?”

“Aye, don’t worry about it.”

 

This went on for a couple of days. Peter would show up at her tent with a person or two that had stayed behind after his act. They both played their part with increasing ease. Peter would return with a stack of pound notes. They would exchange flirty quips and sips of whiskey. She was starting to think they were quite like minded, she and Peter. But he never hung around long enough for them to really get to know each other. There was always some flapper waiting for him. Seeing as how eager he was to leave, Jenny imagined they did more than play Mah-jong together.

 

On the road between Ipswich and Norwich, Jenny decided to get some answers from him. There was a certain hierarchy to the wagons they traveled in; Jenny had to pass through several to get to the most luxurious one. Ignoring the judgemental looks from Tatiana, the tight-rope walker, and her knife-throwing girlfriend, Jenny looked for Peter. She found him reading the latest Agatha Christie novel, or more accurately, snoring with the book splayed opened on his chest. His shirt was unbuttoned almost to his navel. When she shook his shoulder, he groaned and squinted against the sunlight.

“Oh, Jenny, you’re so pretty, I must still be dreaming.”

Even half-asleep he was an incorrigible flirt.

“I’m sorry for waking you up, but I really need to know what’s happening before our next stop.”

“Oh, alright.” He scooted over to make some room for her on the green leather seat.

In between sips from his flask, he explained that many people— usually women— came to him after his shows with questions about the afterlife. These grieving mothers or wives worried their dear ones could turn to vampires, especially those whose bodies had never been retrieved from the battlefields.

“What do you tell them?”

“Well, first of all, I try not to laugh. I mean, it’s bloody ridiculous, vampires don’t exist. Neither do ghosts.”

“No, ‘course not.”

“Anyway, it got me thinking, some of these women have more brass than brains, if you catch my drift.”

“So you want to bring them to me for their money, like we’ve been doing?”

“Oh, no, much more than that: séances.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Séances were very trendy right now, especially with Houdini and Conan Doyle’s friendly feud over spiritualism making the headlines. Just like the famous escape artist, Peter knew how to make people believe anything with a little smoke and concealed ropes.

“But isn’t that taking advantage of people’s sadness?” Jenny said, although she’d expressed no such concerns so far.

“Now, I know what you mean, but think about it: if we say the right thing to them, we can provide closure, help them move on and—” He burst out laughing. “Sorry, I can’t even say it with a straight face.”

Jenny rolled her eyes, she’d been right there with him until he burst out laughing. He may not be serious, but she thought there might some truth to it. They could bring people comfort… in exchange for a lot of money.

“And if people find out we’re a fraud?” Jenny asked.

Fraudulent psychics had been arrested in London, she’d seen it in the papers.

“The carnival’s out of town the next day.” He shrugged. “But I’ve seen you work, you’re good, Jenny. I’ve been in this business for a while now, waiting for the perfect partner. What do you say?”

To work with Peter Vincent and get rich, it was an enticing offer. As she shook his hand to seal the deal, she shut out souvenirs of her mother’s warnings about messing with the great beyond.


	2. Heebie-Jeebies

The circus train had pulled up in Edinburgh at the crack of dawn.  The field that had been vacant and quiet up until their arrival, was now abuzz with activity. Forty men or so in work clothes unloaded stacks of metal rods and bundles of canvas from the wagons. Hammers pounding wooden stakes into the earth echoed through the field like machine guns.

“1-2-3 pull!” they shouted again and again in a tug-o-war with the big top.

Colourful concession stands popped up like mushrooms. The smell of popcorn and roasted peanuts soon rose in the air.

Rubberneckers watched the parade of lion cages, sequined costumes and trampolines.

Banners soared like sails flapping in the wind. They announced the most famous acts: the flying daredevils, Viola the snake lady, Inira the elephant charmer and, of course, the magnificent Peter Vincent with his creatures of the night.

Said creatures of the night, three dark haired young women, walked across the field. They held lace parasols to protect their pale skins from the august sun.  Jenny wiped her forehead on her arm as she struggled to straighten her tent. She wasn’t one of them— the performers. The three girls were more than actresses, they could bend their bodies in impossible ways, adding creepiness to Peter’s show. In comparison, Jenny was unimportant, expendable, a notch above the work crew. But she had plans to rise in the circus ranks. As she organized the inside of her tent, Jenny imagined psychic readings in front of a crowd and ghostly circus acts. Next season maybe. She hadn’t talked about it to Peter yet. Their Spiritism business was going so well, she could make a name for herself too. She’d helped him with his ambition, he would help her with hers.

Jenny sat in front of her makeshift vanity. She covered her blond hair with a paisley scarf, tucking stray curls underneath. For fuller eyelashes, she painted them with a mixture of petroleum jelly and soot. She had invested in a more elaborate gipsy costume: a peasant blouse and layers of colourful skirts.

Whistles shrieked, blown by the O’Malley brothers: showtime.

Jenny positioned a hand-painted easel sign by her door: “Miss Esmeralda fortune teller and spirit medium”.

 “Ladies, ladies, find out who your husband will be,” Jenny shouted at passersby. Dozens of metal bracelets clanked on her wrists as she gestured to invite people in. “Gentlemen, step right this way. Are you man enough to face your future? You, sir, I sense a presence beside you, a spirit.”

She hated calling people like that, but she had to, to make a living. Some ignored her, some only paused, some stepped in.

Unlike the tearful women Peter had brought to her, day time customers only wanted to be entertained. Jenny had improved her Miss Esmeralda persona. She’d worked on her voice in particular, talking octaves lower with an accent wavering between Spanish and Russian. She loved making clients laugh and gasp with her predictions. They didn’t take her too seriously, but they returned home with a good story to tell and a bit of hope in their hearts.

A young couple were her first clients of the day. Money first, palm reading second. Inside the tent, their eyes widened as they took in the decor: black tapestries blocked the sunlight and pseudo-esoteric symbols glowed in the dark. They sat at a small table, a crystal ball between them. The woman removed her gloves and presented her hands to Jenny. She traced the lines in the woman’s palms with a pensive look.

“Your heart line is long and curved: your passions guide you. But I see your head line is straight: you analyze every situation carefully. I see an important decision in your future, a decision of the heart and the head: marriage.” She looked between the man and woman, smiling meaningfully.

“Oh, no, he’s my brother,” the woman said, appalled.

 _Bollocks_. “Yes, yes... but you will marry, er... siblings! Yes, pardon the confusion.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous. You fancy Jim’s sister, don’t you?”

“I suppose she’s nice enough.”

The day went on like that, with clients from the most gullible to the most skeptical. In between them, she tried to attract more or took a break to read the latest Arthur Conan Doyle short story.

After sunset, garlands of light bulbs illuminated the field. In the distance, Edinburgh was dotted with light too. The O’Malley Brothers’ carnival had a reputation for being freaky and scary, no children could be found at this hour. Screams and giggles came from the “1,000 haunted mirrors” attraction. A long queue had formed by the Peep Show entrance, and in the shadows, couples embraced.

Jenny made her way to the big top. Jacob the giant saw her coming and raised a tent flap to let her in. A crowd filled the thousand seats. On the stage, Peter made a wooden cross levitate. A “vampire” fell to her knees, and he stabbed her in the heart. Stunned spectators gasped. Women screeched. Peter and the vampire both vanished off the stage in a cloud of smoke. When it cleared, the illusionist reappeared, arms raised like a hero. They all cheered.

The show did not impress Jenny much anymore now that she had seen how it went backstage.

As always, a few people stayed behind, as the rest filed out. From her spot, she examined the girls, wondering which one would strike Peter’s fancy tonight. Her money was on the tall ginger with diamond earrings. After working with him for two months, she was starting to know his type: anything but herself.

Peter came out, still in costume, and addressed his admirers. When he spotted Jenny at the back, he winked. One woman was particularly insistent and cried as she talked to Peter. He patted her shoulder, features soft and sympathetic. She nodded as he spoke, and she left after writing something down for him.

Peter walked up to Jenny with that cocky gait of his. He wiggled his eyebrows as he flicked the piece of paper between his fingers. “Eleven o’clock tomorrow night. Lady Mazza wants to talk to her dead husband.”

“ _The_ Lady Mazza.”

“The one and only. She heard about us from the MacDonalds in Dunbar.”

They had been doing séances for over a month now and word-of-mouth was already working in their favour.

“I’ll make some extra ectoplasm. Let’s give her a good show.”

“Put on the ritz, baby.”

On her way out, Jenny met Laura and Donna, the Siamese twins who had joined the circus last week.

“Is Peter in there?” they asked, blushing.

“You might still be able to catch him.”

Had he shagged them already? She wouldn’t put it past him.

Jenny removed her costume and stored it in a trunk by her cot. Her mother’s belongings lined the bottom of the trunk: jewelry and objects she’d used in rituals. Out of respect for her, she hadn’t dared use them for their fraudulent business. She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to a photograph of her mother, Mabel Dawes. A photograph from before the spirits drove her crazy, back when she was healthy and loving. What would she think of her daughter now?

Jenny startled when someone cleared their throat behind her. To her surprise, Peter was already here. He was out of his costume, a newspaper tucked under his arm.

“What? Done with the lass already?” she asked.

“No lass tonight.”

_Well, this was new._

They sat by the glow of the oil lamp to look at Lord Mazza’s obituary in the newspaper.

“Heart attack,” Peter summed up.

“I’ve an idea, during the séance I’ll do this.”  Jenny mimed clutching her heart and choking.

He smiled at her with pride. They made a good team, bouncing ideas off each other, constantly improving their act.

“They feel something in their left arm too, before the attack,” he said.

“Like this?” She rubbed her arm, clenching and unclenching her hand.

“That should do it.”

“How do you know that?”

He shrugged and drank from his flask. Had his show ever frightened someone to death?

Jenny made ectoplasm from egg whites and sawdust. Meanwhile Peter tested a new contraption that could lift a table by pressing a pedal. They chatted as they worked. She loved these moments when he forgot he was “the Magnificent Peter Vincent”. He showed her a more genuine side of himself.

Jenny had wanted to know how he’d first joined the circus for some time, and this seemed like a good moment to ask.

“It’s old Mr. O’Malley, the brothers’ father, he spotted me on the streets ages ago,” he explained, still working under the table. “I had this little hoodwinking trick with cards. I’d pick people’s pockets as I did it. Old O’Malley caught me red-handed.”

“He called the coppers on you?”

Peter laughed and turned to face her, sitting on his heels. “No. He offered me a job. Mind you, I didn’t have my own act right away. I was on the work crew. I did everything: set up tents, sell lemonade, cook, shovel manure… Old O’Malley taught me his tricks. I started doing little gigs. But then the war began.”

Was that a quiver in his voice?

“Can you pass me the screwdriver?” he asked.

Jenny hurried to hand it to him. Their eyes met for the first time since they’d started talking. He looked sad. When he took the screwdriver from her, he covered her fingers with his, and they lingered there.

“Oh, Peter—"

“Anyway.” He returned under the table to fiddle with the contraption. “After the war, his sons needed a good show to kick start his circus again. I became Peter Vincent.”

“You saw him die of a heart attack,” Jenny blurted out, only realizing what she’d said after she’d said it.

He stared at her, jaw slack. “I— yeah.”

His eyes slid away, and before she could apologize, he’d stood up and walked to the tool box. He rummaged in it for some time, but she doubted he really was looking for something.

“Peter, I—”

He turned to her with a smirk plastered on. “Stop reading my mind, doll, or you’ll see yourself naked in there.”

She tried not to read too much into his comment, mostly she was disappointed he’d reverted to his flirty persona.

Even if there was nothing left for him to do in preparation of tomorrow’s séance, Peter hung around for the rest of the night. They didn’t speak of personal things again. They didn’t speak much at all actually.

Jenny thinned luminous radium paint with turpentine and soaked strips of muslin in it. Once dry, she could shake them over an object to make them glow in the dark. She called it “residual spirit dust”. Out of the corner of her eyes, she caught Peter watching her. Again, she tried not to read too much into it but she hoped it meant he enjoyed her company or, at the very least, needed company tonight and had chosen her for that.

The smell of turpentine stank the tent so they stepped outside. Crickets chirped louder than anyone else; all the public had gone. Here and there, personal tents were illuminated from the inside. Shadows moved across their canvas like Chinese puppetry.

Peter sat on the grass and patted the space next to him.

“Be a doll and put your head on my shoulder, will ya?” he said softly.

She didn’t need to be told twice. And maybe the arm around her shoulders was more for his benefit, but she needed it just as much.

“Bet old O’Malley would’ve been keen on you,” he said.

 

The following night, Peter showed up with his wig and goatee on, but he had forgone the vampire hunter costume in favour of a suit. Jenny was not costumed either, wearing an elegant, if modest, dress with a beaded headband on her forehead.

“Get a wiggle on, will ya?”

Jenny put on her gloves and cloche hat. “Coming.”

A taxi cab took them to the Mazza estate near Holyrood. A servant helped them carry a trunk inside the house, to the lavish dining room. The Lady of the house greeted them. She was too young to be a widow. Still in mourning, she wore a drab black dress. The drop waist fashion did nothing for her pear-shaped body, but the short haircut looked good with her cheekbones.

“Miss Esmeralda works best if she can get a sense of the spirit,” Peter explained to Lady Mazza. “If you would be so kind as to show her a room and objects your husband liked, it would be a tremendous help to contact him.”

Jenny let him speak most of the time, cultivating an aura of mystery for herself.

Lady Mazza guided her to her husband’s study. Jenny made a show of breathing deeply and closing her eyes as her hands hovered over books, framed photographs and maps. She registered every detail for later use. She did this slowly, so Peter would have time to set and hide the table lift contraption, the levitating candlesticks and other gadgets.

Lady Mazza proved exceptionally helpful, babbling about her husband’s work and friends.

“He died in this room, the attack happened here. I told him not to work so hard,” she said, a sob choking her words.

Jenny pretended to focus, extending her hands towards the floor where he would have fallen. Funny, for some reason she had always pictured it happening in the kitchen.

“Can you feel it?” asked the widow.

Jenny rubbed her left arm, clenching and unclenching her fist as she had practiced.

Later, they switched place, Peter took over talking to Lady Mazza and Jenny stayed behind in the dining room. A long table cloth covered the round table down to the floor. Jenny had previously painted esoteric symbols and letters on it. She made the room as dim as possible, and hid a few things up her dress. It helped that shapeless dresses were fashionable these days. Finally, she lighted some incense sticks. They were used for the smell, but it sometimes made people dizzy which worked in their favour.

At half past eleven, a party of four arrived. They were the parents and brothers of Lord Mazza. All were of Italian descent but only the parents had retained an accent. The four of them stayed on the side of the room opposite Lady Mazza. None of them talked to her. Jenny watched from behind the door. This coldness between them made her nervous, she didn’t want any bad surprises.

“What have we got here?” Peter whispered, coming up behind her to sneak a peek too.

His front was to her back as he craned his neck to see inside the room. Jenny wanted to lean against him, to put her head on his shoulder like last night, but now was not the time.

“You should warm up the room,” he suggested.

“The mother?”

“My thoughts exactly— wait.”

There was a piece of luminous muslin hidden under her headband, he tucked it back in correctly. His fingers lingered on her cheek.

“Break a leg, doll.”

Jenny walked into the room, slowly, feet dragging across the wooden floor. She kept her arms up in front of her and never took her eyes off Lord Mazza’s mother. Everyone in the room fell silent and watched her. Approaching the older woman, she made her eyes well up by keeping them opened until they stung.

“Sometimes you think you didn’t do the right thing,” Jenny said, her voice soft but insistent.

(Everyone thought so at one point or another in their life.) The older woman swallowed thickly and gripped her shawl. Jenny looked over her shoulder and nodded as though someone had talked to her, but there was no one.

At that moment, Peter came in the room and cleared his throat to speak. In a solemn voice, quite unlike his natural tone, he introduced himself and Jenny, then explained how they would proceed. He insisted on the difficulty of contacting the spirit world.

They all moved to the dining room. Here too, Lady Mazza’s in-laws sat opposite her, going as far as moving chairs to put some space between them. Peter and Jenny exchanged a concerned look. There was nothing they could do about it for now.

Jenny blew out two of the three candles and started whispering gibberish.

“Such darkness makes it easier for the spirit to manifest itself,” Peter explained. “If you would hold the wrist of the person on your right, this will form a circle that must not be broken to keep the spirit in this realm.”

The father held Jenny’s right wrist, and Jenny held lady Mazza’s. She closed her eyes, head bowed. She swayed slightly from side to side, a hypnotic movement. Only a ticking clock filled the silence.

“Antonio. Antonio Mazza. I call you from the spirit world,” she said in a disembodied voice.

Jenny inhaled loudly and threw her head back, startling the guests. The candle’s flame flared up. Her eyes flew opened, pupils rolling back. She jerked her right hand loose as though is spasm.

“Close the circle,” she urged, breathing heavily.

The father caught what was in fact Jenny’s left wrist, leaving her right hand free unbeknownst to the guests.

“Lord Mazza, are you here?” Peter asked.

Jenny jerked in her chair again.

“Miss Esmeralda, are you in contact with the spirit?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Antonio Mazza, if you are here give us a sign.”

Jenny covered her free hand with her black sleeve and, with a thread, pulled the luminous strip of muslin from under her headband. Old Mrs. Mazza cried out, even the brothers gulped.

“Don’t touch it,” Peter said, “she could die if someone touches the ectoplasm.”

Jenny pulled until it slipped under the table. Peter pressed on the pedal and the table shook. Everyone gasped. Meanwhile, Jenny hid the fabric in her pocket.

“You may join hands on the planchette to ask your questions.”

They placed their fingertips on a flat, heart-shaped, piece of wood. They would use it to point at letters and spell out the spirit’s answers. The two extinguished candles reignited themselves (or rather, Peter did).

“Antonio, is it really you?” Lady Mazza asked.

The planchette started moving, jerking their hands from one letter to the other: C-A-R-A-M-I-A. Jenny didn’t know what that meant, Peter had been stirring the planchette. All the in-laws stared at the widow, her bottom lip was quivering and her eyes darted between Jenny and Peter.

“ _Cara mia_ : that was his pet name for me,” she explained at last.

“May I ask a question?” the father said.

“Of course, sir.”

“Antonio, please, son, tell us how you died.”

Jenny did her best not to break character— wasn’t it common knowledge that he’d died of a heart attack? She guided the planchette towards the right letters. It felt like someone was trying to pull it in another direction, the father perhaps. Something fishy was going with this family. Jenny added to the act by clutching her dress over her chest and arching her back in a dramatic way. When she finished, the mother sighed and it sounded like relief

The usual questions followed about his well-being in the afterlife. It all went smoothly from there. They performed a few more tricks, dazzling the guests who ate it all up. After the séance, Jenny was left alone to “recuperate” while Peter entertained the guests and handled the finances. She heard them talk animatedly. The coldness between the widow and her in-laws seemed to have gone. Jenny was glad for it, she knew that it had happened with her help even if it was through dishonesty.

The Mazzas paid the agreed-upon price, adding a generous tip and promises to tell all their friends. Meanwhile, Jenny had cleared the room of all evidence of treachery. They packed their trunk and left the estate.

In the taxi, they couldn’t talk openly about their tricks. Still, Jenny was so excited about how well it had gone considering the unpromising start, that she couldn’t resist taking Peter’s hand. He squeezed her hand and returned her smile.

“Tonight was just marvelous, wasn’t it?” she exclaimed as soon as they’d entered her tent.

“And how! Bloody hell, they couldn’t get enough of us.”

He threw his wig and fake goatee on the table.

“You know, if it goes on like this,” Peter began, “if we get a good enough reputation, maybe the clients will come to us.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Settle down. Our own place where we can receive guests. Imagine all we could do if we didn’t have to carry our stuff around.”

He smiled at her, wide and dreamy. _Settle down? Together?_ If she didn’t know him better, she would have thought he was proposing.

He clapped and rubbed his hands together. “I feel like celebrating.”

He didn’t drink on séance nights, he couldn’t risk it. Now that it was done, he reached for his flask. Jenny put on a jazz record and Peter raised her hand to make her twirl. Feeling mischievous, on the second twirl, she stole the flask from him.

“Oi!”

He chased after her through the small tent. Jenny giggled, jumping on the bed and taking a sip.

“They don’t call it giggle water for nothing,” he said, then jumped on the bed too.

She escaped him once again, running off to the other side of the tent. He caught her around the waist.

“Minx.”

She didn’t fight him. This time, she did lean back against his chest. He went very quiet. His ribs expanded with every deep breath.

“Jenny, we’re business partners.” She couldn’t see his face, but he said this in a soft voice with his cheek pressed to her hair.

“So?”

“We’ve got a good thing going.”

“And you don’t want to risk that,” she answered, defeated.

“That and other things… you’re brilliant, Jenny.”

She turned in his arms and grabbed the lapels of his jacket. “So are you.”

He snorted and lowered his head, all cockiness gone. A strand of hair fell over his eyes. She reached for his face, but he walked away.

Peter dropped down on a chair and lit a cigarette. Jenny remained rooted on the spot. They’d come so close. After the first pull on his cigarette, he smirked and winked, but she wasn’t fooled.

“Besides,” he said, “who figured out the _cara mia_ thing, eh? Not me. Now that was fan-fucking-tastic.”

“What?”

“How did you know?”

“… I didn’t.”

“What?”

“I thought it was you moving the planchette.”

Peter’s face paled. “No.”

“You better not be messin’ with me, Peter Vincent.”

He shook his head, and her blood ran cold.

“Must’ve been one of the guests,” he said without much conviction in his voice.

“Yes. Must be. Has to be.”

“Yeah. Has to be.” Peter ran a hand down his scruffy cheek and over his mouth. “Look, I’ll just— good night, Jenny.”

He left and she watched his silhouette recede in the night, more confused than ever.

The night had been such an emotional roller coaster, she was exhausted. She washed her face, put on her nightie and slipped under the covers. She closed her eyes, but sleep evaded her. Despite the physical tiredness, her mind kept spinning: Lord Mazza falling on the kitchen floor, a broken tea cup, Old Mr. O’Malley, Peter as a street urchin, her mother’s last breath, and that pet name: _cara mia_. Over and over, the images spun in her head, morphing and bleeding into each other until she couldn’t tell Peter from Lord Mazza.

Jenny kicked back her covers and jolted off the bed. Shallow breaths barely filled her lungs. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her hands turned cold and numb. She glanced at the trunk, thinking of her mother’s protective amulet at the bottom.

_I’m going crazy._

She ran out of her tent, barefoot in the cold, slippery grass, fog on her breath. She ran faster and faster. She broke into a sweat, but kept on going. Near Peter’s tent, she stopped dead in her tracks. There was no light on. He’d made it clear he wanted nothing more than business between them. She looked at the other tents, every shadow sent shivers down her spine. But she needed him. There was no one else she could turn to.  No one else who would understand.

Jenny stepped inside and let her eyes adjust to the darkness.

“Peter?”

He sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes with a groan.

“I’m sorry but… I’m scared,” she said.

He opened his arms in invitation and she snuggled up to him. He smelled of tobacco and whiskey but she didn’t care. He caressed her hair, rocking her gently, and Jenny started relaxing. She tipped her head back, looking up at him, longing for a kiss to make the bad dreams go away. Peter cupped her cheek and stroked it with his thumb. His eyes fell to her lips.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

“My pleasure, cara mia.” 


End file.
